


The Food of Love

by Shiny_Red_Cape



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Baking, F/M, Fluff, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 08:22:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1851145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny_Red_Cape/pseuds/Shiny_Red_Cape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regina makes a mess, Robin decides he want to play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Food of Love

When Robin arrives as the house, the air is thick with the smell of warm, rich chocolate. He removes his shoes – there had been conversations before this about bringing the woods inside with him – and pads barefoot into the house. He tracks the scent to the kitchen, stopping at the door to survey the... well, he tried not to use the word 'disaster' in non-life or death situations, it helped keep things in perspective from one emergency to the next, but were he predispositioned to drama the word would be appropriate. The room is a mess. Next to the sink there are two bowls, still filled with what looks like half-combined, various items of used cutlery littered one side of the work surfaces, the chair pushed to the edge of the white, marble topped island was dusted liberally cocoa powder - as was the area around the dirty, empty mixing bowl. Around the kitchen and the oven he could see tiny smears of brown fingerprints, the colour matching the remains he could see on the sides of the bowl. And in the middle of it all stood Regina, back to him, doing her own her own examination of the wreckage. Sensing someone watching her she turns, smiling when she realises it’s him, and it strikes him just how happy she looks. Despite the flour in her hair and stains on her skirt (he can see the outline of a small handprint where someone has obviously tugged at the fabric), it’s like something inside is glowing, contentment seeping through her skin.

“Roland and I were baking” she says wryly, as if it needs explanation. She gestures to the oven, where a pan rests, “We made brownies”.

“That was courageous of you” he offers, stepping further into the room.

“Not really, brownies are easy”. She sees his look around the room and laughs as she corrects herself, “I thought brownies would be easy”.

He smiles, “4 year olds do have a habit of making the easy complicated don’t they? You must have had to be very patient with him, sorry for the mess”

She waves away the apology “Not at all, we enjoyed it. They’re only ingredients, easy enough to replace. I like spending time with him”.

His eyes soften a little, and he can see she’s a little embarrassed to have been caught saying it out loud. Changing the subject she fixes him with what is supposed to be a stern look, ruined because she can’t keep the corner of her mouth from creeping up. “We were going to make cookies, but we discovered that someone had eaten all the chocolate chips...” He has the grace to look abashed.

“Ah, yes, Roland may have inherited his sweet tooth from me. I saw them the other night and couldn’t resist”. There were a lot of things he couldn’t resist that night, and suddenly it isn’t the heat of oven making her warm. From the smirk on his face she isn’t the only one remembering. She has a sudden sense of the room being smaller than before. He knows exactly what he does to her, but plays casual for a moment. “What happened here?” he asks, walking over to the abandoned bowls. He taps the rim of the first.

“Roland had trouble cracking the egg and it sort of disintegrated when he dropped it, we couldn’t get all the pieces of shell out”. He taps the second, “I was setting the oven and he took salt instead of sugar” she tells him. He takes a few steps to her, right up to her, until they’re practically toe to toe and the smell of forest she associated with him overtakes anything else. Not moving his eyes from her he taps the bowls next to her.

“This try was more successful I take it?” She has to remember how to inhale for a second because it’s ridiculous how his proximity affects her. “Third time’s a charm” she manages to get out. He brings a thumb up to trail down her cheek to the smudge at the corner of her mouth. “Testing your efforts?” he murmurs.

“I told Roland he could lick the spoon and he tried to feed me some, I didn’t quite turn my head fast enough”. When she goes to scrub the mark away he catches her hand is his.

“Let me help you with that” he says, all politeness. A second later the stroke of his tongue of her skin is at odds with the bland tone, stealing once, twice over the sugary patch. “Nice” he mumbles, before moving over to trace the seam of her lips. She opens for him and for a moment it’s only the feel of his mouth on hers, his body crowding her back against the table and her melting into his frame.

The relentless whine of the oven timer brings her back to reality, but his lips chase hers when she tries to slip away, arms twining around her. She’s laughing again, breathlessly, “Robin, I-“ (kiss)“ I have to-“ (kiss) “get that!”. Her words only move his attentions to her neck. “Roland will be so – ah – disappointed if they burn”. A small sigh in the hollow of her throat and he disengages, reluctant and unrepentant, allowing her to extract herself. She silences the noise with a tap of the button, and uses a potholder to carefully manoeuvre out the hot tray and place it in a tiny corner that was somehow spared the earlier carnage.

“Where is Roland now?” he asks, as she throws the cloth into a drawer.

“Henry arrived, took one look at this place and thought I might need some recovery time. He took him to Emma’s to introduce him to video games”

He’s right behind her (how does he manage to surprise her even when she knows he’s there?), looking over her shoulder. “Smells good” he hums, wrapping his arms around her waist.

“They’re too hot to eat yet” she warns, and he brushes a kiss to the bend of her neck.

“I suppose we’ll have to think of something to do while they cool”

She looks at him (trying to keep her lips straight because he _knows_ the way he looks at her) and shakes her head. “Have you not seen the state of this place? I need to fix it“. The tiny frown between his eyes suddenly clears “You’re absolutely right” he says brightly.

“I am?” she replies, suspicious of his abrupt change of mood.

“Indeed, in fact I’ll help”. She stares at him. “This dress, for example, I’m sure should go to the laundry” Ah, there we are. She backs away a few steps and he pursues her.

“I’m serious Robin”

“As am I”

There’s no real contest here, he’s used to hunting. And if she’s honest, she wants to be caught. The thread of longing winding through her at the press of his mouth makes her arguments worthless. She sinks into him, and when they separate her dress sags between them, unzipped.

“How did that happened” he wonders aloud, all shock and surprise, nimble fingers divesting her of the cloth. She rolls her eyes, but there’s no anger.

He picks her up and swings them around to place her on the edge of the marble unit. The movement leaves him standing between her legs, face level with her generous breasts. His finger traces the edge of her bra over the swell of them, leaving a trail of goose bumps in his wake. “This is pretty” he says, “but I’d hate for it to get dirty”. He slides his hands deliberately around to her back, bringing his whole body forward with the move. He teases her with soft, biting kisses and flicks of his tongue to hers, but doesn’t allow her to deepen the contact. Long minutes later and her mind is muddled with passion, her mouth is plump and swollen, and her bra is no longer a barrier between them. His hands are roving over her breasts, exploring the weight and pliancy, but not going where she needs them, where her body has tightened into aching, crested tips. His mouth glides into the valley between them, then further, grazing the tender undersides in a way that makes her shiver pleasantly. A moist lick has him sliding up and the anticipation has her breath coming in pants, moaning as he blows warm air over her needy flesh. He pulls away and her arms fasten around his head, instinctively trying to keep him there. His hair brushes the inside of her wrist as he turns his head and presses a kiss to the frantically beating pulse point. When he speaks his voice is as thick and dark as treacle “I want my treat now” he says. Regina looks at him, uncomprehending, thoughts still scattered as he reaches out to bring the bowl (now perched perilously on the corner) closer to them.

 _Oh_. He laughs outright as a fiery blush spreads over her cheeks because he loves, _he loves_ the fact that he’s the only one that can cause it. The sound stops but the amusement remains banked in his eyes as he slides a finger through the batter. She’s frozen, torn between embarrassment and a twist of want low in her stomach. Robin makes the decision for her by smearing the chocolaty mix over her areola, making her voice catch when he finishes with a slick pinch. They exchange a scalding look as he presses his messy fingers against her lips, “Taste” he rumbles, and she obeys, sucking them down into the warm cavern of her mouth. He bends his head to her nipple and worries it gently with his teeth, enjoying the moan it brings around his slowly thrusting fingers, then sets to long exploring licks. His agile tongue flicks, then circles around into every pleat and groove of her aroused tip, thorough in his search for every trace of the sticky, sugared substance. Her legs wrap tightly around his waist, needing weight and friction. His mouth doesn’t pause in its erotic discovery, but his hands come to her hips, pressing her hard against his stomach with an unapologetically carnal rocking. He sucks her deep and a cry shudders in the air, turning into laboured, gasping breaths when he releases his mouth from her. “Robin...” she mouths, but he won’t be swayed, taking another sample from the bowl he repeats the action on her other side.

 

By the time he’s finished her head is tipped back, pleading sounds clogging every exhale, a fine tremor running through her limbs. He lays her back and she goes, uncaring of the mess or of how she must look spread out before him like a buffet to be sampled. “You taste sweet”, his tone is languid as he presses soft kisses down to her stomach, pausing to nuzzle at the tense muscles, “but I know something that will taste sweeter”. He helps her lift her hips so he can pull away the scrap of lace hiding her from him, running the lightest touch down the gleaming folds he’s bared. Her hips twitch up and he hears a curse. “Sorry”, she can hear the smile even if she can’t see it, “should I kiss it better?” Her answer is ineloquent but he takes it as a yes, bringing her knees up to rest over his shoulders and parting her with one hand. He presses a kiss to her entrance, then another, deeper this time, pushing inside her quivering walls; her breath is harsh in the silence of the room, heels digging hard into his back. When he slides up suddenly and captures the sensitive nub above, her entire body arches with a shout, overwhelmed by sensation. He sucks her, tongue teasing the ridge of the tiny hood and her body is shaking, hands holding a white-knuckled grip on the edge on the countertop. His fingers slip inside her and he tugs a little harder at her engorged peak, not sure if she realizes she’s begging him with almost sobbing moans “Please! Please Robin, please!” Her limbs are stiffening with every thrust up towards him when he finds that spot inside and presses hard. His cunning fingers and the barest hint of teeth grazing her pushes her over the edge and her hips jerk up hard, holding to her flush to him as she cries out.

He laps at her softly as her body begins to unclench, bringing her down gently. Looks satisfied at her limp body still gasping in front of him, face dazed. After a few minutes her breath is regulating, and awareness starts to return. She starts to push herself up onto her elbows, a groan of a completely different sort escaping as the reality of the chilly hard surface at her back starts to set in. He helps her upright and hugs her to him, her forehead dropping forward to the cushion of his warm chest.

“God Robin”

He strokes a line up and down her back. He knows.

His arousal is a hard press against his jeans. He slides her down from the surface carefully, making sure her legs are steady before he lets go. “Come upstairs, we can get cleaned up”. She sees the heat in his eyes and trails her hand down his body.

“Is this for me?” she asks. She feels him rear against her palm and he says it again, more urgently this time, “Come upstairs” but it’s too late, there’s a twinkle in her eye that says they’re doing this her way. She turns them and goes to her knees, slowly drawing her body down his as she does, and makes quick work of unbuttoning his jeans and pulling them down, underwear and all. He steps out of them and kicks them to one side, then takes a moment to appreciate the picture in front of him. The sunlight dappled against her naked skin, a half smile on her mouth – so close to where he needs it – and a look in her eyes positively wicked. He twitches again and she makes a soothing noise, bringing her hand up to run once down the length of him, “You look like you need some help” she says, feeling powerful, “Shall I kiss it better?” He can’t laugh with her because _God yes_ and it’s written across his face. Body still humming agreeably from her own release she decides she doesn’t want to torture him. Well, not too much. She presses tiny kisses down his shaft, enjoying the sound of his breath fracturing, then drags her bottom lip back up it as she returns. She takes the head of him into her mouth and swirls her tongue around. Once. Twice. The third time his hands slide into her hair, a light pressure on her skull. She looks up and frees him; he makes a sound at the denial. “Hands on the table until I say otherwise” she orders, waiting for him to comply. He considers her for a moment, then untangles his hands, catching his thumb on her bottom lip where a tiny dot of pre-cum lies before placing his hands as she’s directed. His obedience brings a warmer smile to her face, “It’s my turn” she explains more gently. She takes him again, this time working down slowly, fingers playing with the sensitive skin at his base. All he can do is lean into her and try to fight the urge to thrust in deep, and when her head starts bobbing up and down, setting a pace that has a fine sheen of sweat breaking out over his skin, he knows he isn’t going to last long. He mutters her name like a prayer, hips unable to stop shifting towards her. Her tempo quickens and he can feel his release near, a tingling that starts low and rises up. “Regina!” he warns, losing the rhythm as he gets closer. She’s not letting go and he growls; twisting his hands in her inky locks he forces her away just as he loses control, emptying himself with a low, rough groan against her chest.

He slumps, spent, and stumbles to the chair. Holding out his arms, she takes the invitation and follows him, legs dangling either side of his and she rests her head on his shoulder. They sit peacefully, waiting for the wild tattoo of his heart to quiet. An indeterminable amount of time later she raises her head and kisses his chin, “Now I really do have to shower” she reminds him. A lazy grin breaks over his features and they shift, stretching, and then stand together. A quick wave puts the kitchen to rights behind them, clothes laundered in a neat pile by the bed, as he leads her upstairs. They wash away the remains of their lovemaking, and after he soaps every part of her. They love again, under the warm cascade of water, and Regina is heavy eyed when they finally make it to the bedroom. She barely notices Robin drying them both, but crawls into the cool sheets with him, tangling their bodies together. She looks at him as consciousness slips away, and whatever he sees there makes him kiss her again.

They sleep.


End file.
